Penumbra (25 page)

She smiled at his use of her nickname. It was the only one no one knew about, just as his secret name was one only she knew about, though it was one she rarely used. “I don't share your desires. I want a life. I want to be normal.”

He glanced at her, his smile almost bitter. “We will never be normal.”

“Maybe. But I want to try.” She hesitated. “There's something else out there for me, Josh. Something, or someone, I need to find. And I need you to give me the time to do that.”

He studied her a few seconds longer, then nodded. “Okay. Destroy that place, and we'll leave.”

“And Mary?”

“She'll be safe here on the hill until they find her. She won't remember seeing us. I'll wipe out her memory of being rescued.” He hesitated. “We'll find somewhere safe for you to go, and then I'll wipe out yours. Completely. But it might cost you your powers…”

“I don't care. I don't want them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. More than sure.” She touched his arm lightly. “Thank you.”

His smile was grim. “You know it won't work, Sammy. Not entirely. It's human nature to seek the unknown, and in your case, that will be the past.”

“But in seeking, I will also be living a different life. I need that, at least for a while.”

“And what if the powers come back?”

“Do you think they will?”

“They might, once you hit puberty. I don't know for sure, but it seems likely.”

“Then I'll cross that bridge when I come to it,” she told him firmly.

He grimaced and waved a hand toward the boundary fence. “Then let's get away from this place.”

She glanced at the burning buildings and called to the earth underneath it. Power filled her, stretched her, with a rawness that felt at once so right and yet so alien. She waited, letting it run through every pore, every cell, until it felt as if skin and bone and being had melted away and she was nothing more than that rawness. Then she finally released it. A shudder ran through the ground beneath them, gathering speed and strength. With a rolling, groaning sound, the earth below the hill split asunder and whole buildings began to disappear. When everything had been swallowed, she let the earth rest again. Another shudder ran through the ground, one that echoed through her soul. She rubbed her arms and glanced at her brother.

“Let's hope we never come back to this place.”

“Let's hope
you
never come back. Me, I have every intention of returning. There's still too much to be done here.”

“Josh—”

“You have your dreams, and I have mine. Leave it at that, Sammy.”

He rose and held out his hand, and she clasped it and let him lead her to freedom.

The dream came to an abrupt halt and Sam woke with a start. For several seconds she did nothing more than lie on her bed, staring up at the ceiling as her heart galloped and sweat rolled down her cheek.

Or maybe it was tears.

As her heart began to slow to a more normal rate, she let her thoughts return to the dream in an attempt to grasp all the implications.

Because, as usual, the dream had answered some questions and raised many more. For a start, how had they escaped Hopeworth itself? Sure, their section might have been destroyed by flame and earth, but that quake had been very centralized and wouldn't have destroyed—and indeed, didn't destroy—the rest of the base. Plus, there was the fact that she'd had a tracker in her side—a tracker that had been inserted at birth and had been discovered by the SIU when she was being investigated for Jack's death. Surely that would have been activated as a matter of course, even if they weren't sure who had and hadn't perished in the fires and subsequent quake.

A quake
she'd
brought to life.

God,
how scary was that?

She thrust a hand through her sweaty hair and wondered if she still had that power now. If she did, then it was still locked behind the walls of forgetfulness Josh had raised. She hoped it remained there forever. No one should have a power like that.

No one.

And if it started to appear, the way the storm powers were beginning to appear?

She shuddered and sat upright, hugging her knees to her chest.
Worry about one thing at a time,
she told herself fiercely. These were dreams, nothing more, no matter how much they felt like truths. And until she found the boy—the man—she knew as Josh, until she talked to him, there was no proof that anything she dreamed had happened.

And even then, this could all be part of a larger game, one in which she was a major, if unknowing, player. And the dreams might be nothing more than a subterfuge someone desperately wanted her to believe.

Though she didn't think so.

She rubbed her arms and glanced at the clock. It was close to four. Gabriel would be here soon, so she had better start getting ready. And anything was better than contemplating the monster she might have been.

She climbed out of bed and walked across the room to the bathroom. A long shower made her feel better in body if not in soul, and by the time she'd dried her hair and dressed, it was nearly five.

With no sign of Gabriel.

She glanced at her watch to be sure the clock was right, then picked up the phone and dialed his cell phone number.

No answer.

She swore softly. Either he'd been sidetracked or he'd forgotten. Or both.

She left a message, then disconnected, grabbed the keys and headed out the door. If he wanted his car back, he could damn well come and get it.

The traffic was hell, as usual, and it seemed to take forever to get from the hotel to Wetherton's. She drove into the parking lot under Wetherton's building, using her SIU identification to get through the security system. Then she parked near the elevator before catching it to Wetherton's floor.

Jenna Morwood answered on the second knock, lines of exhaustion around her dark eyes. Her expression could only be described as relieved.

“Pleasant day, huh?” Sam said with a grin.

“You could say that,” Jenna said. “Our dear minister is lucky he still has teeth left. Touchy-feely little bastard.”

“Thankfully, I don't appear to be his type. Anything untoward happen today?”

Jenna frowned. “Not really. I thought we were being followed several times, but I couldn't spot a tail, nor could I read any thoughts of ill intent.”

“Did Wetherton do anything unusual? Meet with anyone unusual?”

“Nope. All that happened today was boring politician stuff. I'm hoping like hell this mission doesn't go on for more than a few days.”

So was Sam—especially now that her dreams were becoming more detailed. More graphic. She couldn't keep doing her job with any sort of efficiency if she wasn't sleeping. “Unfortunately, the boss seems to think it'll continue for months.”

“Then here's hoping he's wrong.” Jenna smiled wryly. “Though he generally isn't.”

“No.” Sam glanced past Jenna as a bump came from Wetherton's bedroom. “The minister took a nap at this hour?”

“Yeah, the poor man was so exhausted doing all that ministerial sitting about on his ass that he had to come home for a nap at four. He left via the vent at four fifteen.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Did you manage to get the tracker on him?”

“With all his attempts to feel the merchandise? Oh yeah. He flew to an abandoned apartment complex on Rathdowne Street, stayed there for half an hour, and then went to a low-profile men's club on Spencer Street. He actually returned about ten minutes ago.”

“Did we manage to get observers at either place?”

“Not the first one, but definitely at the second.”

“Who'd he meet?”

Jenna gave an unladylike snort. “The minister enjoyed several lap dances, and then disappeared into the members-only section. Where, we discovered, a more exotic range of services is offered.”

“So basically, the minister had himself a hooker this afternoon?”

“Better her than me,” Jenna said, amusement in her voice. “I'll do my lot for kin and country, but I have my limits. And fucking a man like Wetherton is definitely one of them.”

“That's not just limits, that's called having taste.”

“That, too.” Jenna smiled as she leaned sideways and snagged her coat off the hook behind the door. “Luckily, the lecher is yours to deal with for the next twelve hours.”

“Joy.”

“Indeed.” Jenna waved goodbye and retreated quickly to the elevator. Sam closed the door and turned around to find Wetherton watching her from the bedroom doorway.

She raised an eyebrow and tried to ignore the heat of embarrassment touching her cheeks. She and Jenna had been speaking softly, so there was very little likelihood of Wetherton overhearing their comments. And yet the annoyance in his eyes suggested otherwise.

“Anything I can do for you, Minister?” Sam asked politely.

“Where's Jenna going?”

“Shift change, Minister. You have my delightful company once again this evening.”

He looked her up and down. “We're going out again tonight. You could have worn something more appropriate.”

“I'm your bodyguard, not your date. I'm dressed very appropriately, believe me.”

He grunted—whether in agreement or not, she had no idea—then turned around and walked back into the bedroom. She waited until he came back out and asked, “Where are we going tonight, Minister?”

She actually knew, because she'd read his schedule, but it never hurt to check.

“The opera. I'm meeting a friend there.”

Just as well she
had
checked. The opera certainly hadn't been listed on the schedule. “Minister, until we uncover who might be after you, maybe it would be better to skip some of your social engagements.”

“No. I refuse to let the actions of an idiot unhappy with the current government curtail what I want to do. That's only giving other idiots incentive to do the same.”

“I think the men behind these attempts are more than just idiots with a bone to pick.”

“You'd be surprised, Agent Ryan. These days the government attracts a high caliber of idiot.” He shoved his arms into his jacket. “Let's go. I can't be late.”

She opened the door, checked the corridor, then ushered him through. “Am I permitted to ask who you might be meeting tonight?”

“Just a friend.” He glanced at her as he pressed the elevator button. “A male friend.”

Uh-huh.
He'd heard them all right. “A trusted male friend, or merely an acquaintance?”

Wetherton hesitated. “An acquaintance, but I trust him.”

“That doesn't mean I have to. Name, please?”

“That's unnecess—”

“It is when your life has been threatened twice,” she cut in. “Name, Minister?”

“The other girl is much pleasanter,” he muttered, then added, “Les Mohern.”

Les Mohern? Why did that name ring alarm bells in the back of her mind? Was it simply because it wasn't on the list of known associates and friends Stephan had given her, or was it something else? She repeated the name into her wristcom and ordered a search. With any luck, something would come up before the long night was over.

Now all she had to do was hope it was a long,
unexciting
night.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, instinct suggested it was going to be anything but.

G
ABRIEL GRIPPED THE BRANCH WITH
his claws, keeping his wings spread until he'd gained his balance. Once he had, he settled his wings against his sides and looked around. Dusk was settling in and, with it, a storm. Wind shook the branches, making the leaves all around him shiver and dance, and the growing darkness held a strong scent of rain. It was a clean, fresh fragrance that did little to erase the stench of the house below.

Les Mohern hadn't lived at the address the SIU had on file for a good two years. It appeared that even before his brother's disappearance, Les had lived the life of a gypsy, never staying too long in one place. His subsequent trail had taken some uncovering, but the SIU's computer system was one of the best, and eventually, it had picked up a small trail of receipts that had led Gabriel here.

Mohern's latest stopover was a dump. Literally.

Whoever it was that Mohern was scared of, it had to be pretty damn bad for him to be squatting in a place like this. The stink was almost overwhelming—the sort of odor that could get under your skin and linger. The small house that Mohern was using as a refuge was situated on the corner of the refuse center, and it had to be crawling with all sorts of bugs, mice and rats. Even Gabriel, with the soul of a hawk, shuddered at the thought of staying there. Sharing his bed with cockroaches and rats was not his idea of a good time.

He studied the nearest windows carefully but could spot no movement. And though darkness was closing in, there was no light from within. He walked along the tree branch, looking into other windows, but the result was the same—no immediate signs of life.

He spread his wings and took to the air again. With dusk fading into night, his brown and gold coloring was unlikely to be spotted. Though in truth, a hawk soaring over a refuse station was a good camouflage. Places like this were a haven for hunters of all varieties—winged or not.

He drifted on a current, studying the mounds of rubbish, seeing smaller spurts of movement that spoke of rats and other vermin, but little else of interest.

Until he reached the far edge of the dump and saw two men forcing a third onto his knees. A fourth man watched these proceedings, a gun held at the ready by his left side.

It was, Gabriel thought, oddly silent. Though the man he presumed was Mohern struggled, he wasn't screaming. Maybe he figured there was no point. Out here, only the rats would hear.

As the fourth man raised his weapon and the captive's struggling became more violent, Gabriel swooped downward, spreading his talons and screaming as he did so. The harsh call echoed loudly across the windswept silence.

The stranger with the gun glanced up. His eyes widened and reflected fear a second before Gabriel slashed him across his face and neck.

Blood spurted, spraying his feathers, its sweet aroma taunting his hawk senses. The stranger dropped the weapon, his hands going to the stream pulsing from his neck. Gabriel wheeled around and saw one of the men holding Mohern dive for the dropped gun. Gabriel dove and slashed with a talon, but the man ducked, grabbing the weapon and firing off a shot in one smooth movement. Gabriel flung himself sideways and felt the burn of the bullet's passage past his tail feathers. He squawked as if hit and dropped behind a mound of rubbish. There he shifted shape and, in human form, freed his weapon and carefully edged to the far end of the stinking mound. The man with the gun hadn't moved, his weapon held at the ready as he eyed the mound behind which Gabriel hid. The other man stood behind the still kneeling Mohern. There was no gun in evidence, though Gabriel had no doubt he had one somewhere. Thugs like these rarely went anywhere unarmed. He fired off two quick shots that took both men out, then waited for several seconds, trying to ignore the stinking reek of rubbish as he listened to the night, seeking any sound that might mean these three men had not been alone.

But the only sounds to be heard were the pleas for help from the man whose throat he'd slashed and Mohern's rapid breathing as he struggled to free his hands from their restraints. Not an easy thing when the restraints were wire and his hands were behind his back.

Gabriel stood up and got out his vid-phone to call in a cleanup team as he walked across to the injured man. He did a quick search for ID and other weapons, and found and secured both. Then he administered what medical help he could, using strips torn from his shirt to bandage the wound. After that, he cuffed the man. Even a man in danger of bleeding to death could be dangerous, and the look in
this
man's eyes suggested that if he were able to finish what he'd been sent here to do, he would. Gabriel then checked the other two men to ensure they were both dead, collecting their weapons in the process, then walked over to Mohern and stripped off the tape covering his mouth.

Relief was evident on Mohern's gaunt features, but his blue eyes were wary, distrustful. “Whoever you are, thanks.”

“You may retract that once you see this.”

Gabriel showed him his badge, and Mohern grimaced. “Typical of my luck lately. Still, being caught by a cop is better than being dead.”

Gabriel put his badge away, but not the gun. He didn't trust Mohern any more than he trusted the men who'd intended to kill him. “Why were they going to execute you?”

“Because I know too much.” Mohern looked past Gabriel for a second. “Because the man they work for knows what we…I…saw.”

Gabriel undid the wire restraining Mohern's hands, motioned him to rise, then quickly patted him down. No weapons, no ID—not that the latter was surprising since he was about to be executed. “Tell me what you saw, and I might be able to protect you.”

Mohern snorted. “Yeah, I've heard that song before. It wasn't true back then and I doubt it's true now.”

“Is that because your brother told Jack Kazdan, and died as a result?”

Mohern's eyes narrowed. “Now why would you say something like that?”

“Because Kazdan was a cop, and your brother was supposedly his source.”

“Even if that was true, why would you suspect one of your own of killing my brother? Don't you all stick together, regardless of the crime?”

“I'm not one of Jack's lot. I'm SIU. Big difference. And Jack might have had a badge, but he was still a criminal. I know that, and you know that. So tell me what cost Frank his life.”

Mohern studied him for several seconds longer, then said, “I want a new ID.”

“That will very much depend on what it was you saw.”

“I saw a murder. And I saw the murderer.”

“A murder isn't big enough news to warrant a new ID.”

“What if the person murdered was someone who had serious military connections? And what if the murderer wore one face coming in, and another going out?” He paused, then added, “What if one of those faces was the face of the man who paid us to kidnap Wetherton?”

Fuck.
Was Mohern saying what he thought he was saying? Gabriel hoped so—if only because it was about time they had some damn luck. “Is that why you contacted Douglass last week? Why you called Wetherton and asked for a meet this evening?”

Mohern's gaze widened. “How did you know that?”

“Because part of the SIU's duties is to randomly monitor government officials.” Which was the truth, as far as it went.

Mohern grimaced. “Well, shit. My luck has really run out this week, hasn't it?”

“Not really. If we hadn't been monitoring things, you'd now be a feast for the rats and stray dogs.” He studied the man for a moment, letting the words sink in before adding, “So why contact either of them?”

“In Wetherton's case, I thought he might help me get a new ID in exchange for my continued silence. As you can see, it was becoming harder and harder to hide out.”

“And Douglass?”

He shrugged. “I was paid to deliver a message.”

“What sort of message?”

“I don't know. It was in an envelope and I didn't think it wise to open it.”

“And the man who asked you to deliver the envelope?” Gabriel had no doubt who it would be, but it never hurt to have it confirmed.

“Was the same man who asked me to kidnap Wetherton.”

Hence the bloody message on Douglass's wall. “Why would you think Wetherton would be willing to help someone like you?”

Mohern sniffed. “Well, Wetherton's not the real deal, and he can't afford to have that sort of information revealed, can he?”

“How do you know he's not the real thing?”

“Because the real Wetherton was killed and replaced months ago, wasn't he?”

This was getting better and better. “So who placed the clone? Jack?”

Mohern shook his head. “He gave us the job, though. Said he knew someone who was looking for a couple of hands for a snatch-and-ransom job. Said it paid well.” He shrugged. “He gave us a number, and we called it and got our instructions. Of course, it turned out the ransom part was a lie.”

So why would someone like Sethanon—and they were almost ninety-nine percent sure it was the elusive Sethanon behind Wetherton's replacement—be using two off-the-street thugs for a job as important as snatching a government minister? Unless, of course, he wanted no traceable connection if the job went sour. “Can you remember the phone number?”

“Won't do you any good if I could. It was a public phone box. I checked at the time.”

Damn
—not that he expected anything less. Sethanon was too canny to be caught by something as careless as a traceable phone number. “So you kidnapped Wetherton, as directed. Were you also involved in the murder?”

“No. But Frank saw the copy standing over the real version after we delivered him.”

“Did anyone know Frank saw this?”

“No. And we were being well paid, so silence comes as part of the package.”

“This delivery…Was it to an abandoned apartment building on Rathdowne Street?”

It was a loaded question in many respects, and Mohern answered it blithely. “Yeah. How'd you find him?”

“We know because we've been tracking the minister's whereabouts for some time. I guess you didn't find the tracer when you tried to dump the body, did you?” Which was a lie. Gabriel had never had time to place a tracer, and the only reason
he'd
been saved was the twin bond he'd spent so long trying to block—although the tracer Karl had placed on
him
had also helped.

“So that's how you were able to escape.” Mohern stopped, as if suddenly realizing what he was admitting, and then shrugged. “Jack was really pissed off about you getting away that day.”

“Why?”

“Because he got his ass kicked by the big man.”

So it was Sethanon who'd wanted him that day.
Interesting.
As was the fact that they'd been heading up to the Dandenongs. Surely that would mean their enemy had a compound up in those mountains somewhere, yet the many searches since had turned up nothing. “How'd you get paid for that job?”

“Cash.”

“Who were the other two men?”

Mohern shrugged again. “They were there to deliver the cash and collect the body. When you appeared on the scene, we were asked to help stop you.”

“Who asked? The two men, or someone else?”

“The voice on the phone. He said it would take more than two to stop you.” He paused. “You broke Frank's nose, you know.”

“Frank was lucky I didn't break his damn neck.” Not that it would have mattered. Frank died not long after, probably killed by the man they'd both trusted.

“So, if you didn't see this man at either event, why are you so sure that he's behind both Wetherton's kidnapping and Douglass's murder?”

“Because I've got ears. The voice of the man who gave us the job was the same voice in the murdered chick's apartment.”

No wonder Sethanon wanted this man dead—Mohern could identify him by voice, and had seen at least two of his identities. As the sound of a footstep carried on the wind, he glanced around and saw Agent Briggs and three other SIU officers—one of them a medic—making their way through the muck. He pointed to his still-living captive, and then returned his attention to Mohern. “Are you sure about all this?”